Chapter 21
Chapter twenty-one
~DONOVAN~
Wednesday evening, and Titan’s executive boardroom smells like cold lemon water and seven-figure anxiety.
Floor-to-ceiling windows frame Manhattan at dusk—glass towers catching fire in the sunset, the city looking untouchable, powerful. Unconcerned.
Much like the men and women seated around this table.
I’m at the head, jacket off, sleeves rolled, posture relaxed enough to project control—sharp enough that no one questions it. Even though I haven’t absorbed a goddamn word in the last forty minutes.
Patricia Lin is speaking, something about underwriting timelines and investor confidence. David Walsh is flipping through a deck I approved yesterday and barely remember.
Heads nod. Pens scratch. And no one directly calls me out.
Because when the CEO zones out, people assume it’s strategy.
Not distraction.
Not the fact that every time someone says January—Emma’s expected delivery month—my chest tightens.
“—so if we don’t stabilize messaging before the Goldman follow-up,” Patricia finishes, folding her hands, “we risk erosion of confidence.”
I straighten, meeting her gaze coolly. “We’ll stabilize it.”
No one argues.
“Good,” Patricia says. “Then we’ll reconvene Friday.”
The meeting dissolves into quiet efficiency. Chairs slide back. Tablets disappear. The board filters out, and I gather my notes, already thinking about nothing.
Until—
“Donovan.”
The voice stops me mid-step. It’s not sharp or deferential, but grounded. Familiar.
I look up and meet the gaze of Thane Van Burn—best friend and board member—standing just outside the boardroom doors, one hand in his pocket, the other holding his phone like he debated not coming in at all.
He looks naturally sun-kissed from his vacation with Julia and the kids. Wearing a tailored jacket, he looks relaxed, and the contrast between us is… stark.
“You’re back,” I say.
“This morning.” His chin tips. “Maldives were great. Kids learned how to snorkel. Julia forgot my work laptop on purpose.”
I huff faintly. “Traitor.”
Thane’s eyes flick over my face—too perceptive, too fast.
“You look like hell,” he says calmly.
“Good to see you too.”
He steps closer, lowering his voice as employees pass. “Walk with me.”
It’s not a request, and if this were anyone but him, I wouldn’t agree, but I do, and we move down the corridor—Italian marble underfoot, museum-grade art lining the walls, the soft hum of ambition and air-conditioning washing over us.
Thane waits until we’re alone near the private elevators.
“You didn’t hear a word in there,” he says.
I don’t bother denying it. “They didn’t need me to.”
“No. But you need you to.”
He studies me again—this time longer.
“I’m taking you for a drink,” Thane says.
“I have work.”
“You’re done working for tonight.”
“The fuck? I don’t—”
“Don.” His tone sharpens just enough to cut. “This building can run without you for two hours. You, however, are running yourself into the ground.” A beat. “And I didn’t fly halfway across the world to watch you implode in a glass tower.”
I exhale slowly. “Fine. One drink.”
Takes me several seconds before I decide to head out.
On the way to my motorcycle, which I’ve been riding a lot more lately, I take the stairs, bypassing the elevator down to the garage.
Forty flights later, suit jacket slung over my shoulder, pulse already pounding—not from exertion, but from the pressure sitting in my chest like a clenched fist.
By the time I reach the private garage beneath Titan, the air smells like oil, concrete, and something faintly metallic. The echo of my footsteps follows me past a row of vehicles, and I go straight for the bike.
My prized possession among the many I have at my penthouse.
The 1972 Triumph Bonneville waits where I left it.
It’s sleek. Blacked-out, and restored down to every bolt.
Swinging a leg over, I secure my helmet and gloves, the familiar weight between my legs grounding me in a way boardrooms never do.
Beneath me, the engine roars to life, the sound low, hungry, vibrating straight through bone and muscle, the rumble cutting through the fog in my head like a blade.
I pull out into the evening traffic just as the city shifts gears—the workday bleeding into night.
The air is thick with summer heat, exhaust, hot asphalt. Neon flickers on storefront windows. Sirens wail somewhere distant, threading through the noise.
I take the West Side Highway, the river to my right reflecting the city in broken shards of light. Traffic moves fast, aggressive, impatient.
Everyone trying to get somewhere. Everyone certain they matter.
The wind cuts against my chest as I accelerate, thoughts blurring.
Emma’s face.
The ultrasound screen.
The way she looked at me the last time I peered into those golden-green orbs she calls eyes.
“I should have never told you about the baby.”
My jaw tightens as I push the accelerator, my speedometer ticking past numbers fast.
I don’t see the brake lights until it’s almost too late.
A black SUV ahead of me slams to a sudden stop—traffic snarling for no goddamn reason—and instinct kicks in half a second before logic.
I swerve. Hard.
The bike leans dangerously low, tires screaming in protest as rubber skims asphalt, and the world tilts.
My vision explodes into a kaleidoscope of colors, the river, guardrail, and headlights exploding into streaks of white and red.
For one suspended, terrifying second, I’m certain I’m going down.
Certain I won’t get back up.
Certain I’ll no longer be in this world by the time my child makes it’s way into it.
My heart punches against my ribs, and I correct—barely.
The bike straightens, wobbling as I force it back into control, adrenaline detonating in my bloodstream. I pull onto the shoulder, hands shaking as I cut the engine.
Silence crashes in.
My breath leaves my lungs in fast, sharp blusters, the city continuing to roar past me—unaware.
I rest my forehead against the helmet in my hands, eyes closed.
After a moment, I start the bike again. I ride the rest of the way slower and focused.
By the time I reach the lounge where Thane is likely waiting, my nerves are thrumming under my skin.
The Meridian Room rises above the city like a private secret—discreet entrance, understated security, glass and steel polished to quiet perfection.
I park in the private underground bay, remove my helmet, and run a hand through my hair, pulse finally slowing as the residual tremor fades from my hands.
The elevator ride up is silent, and by the time the doors open, I’m scarcely back in my skin.
Thane is already inside—jacket draped over the back of a leather chair, watching the skyline like a man who knows exactly where he stands in the world.
I cross the room, the echo of the bike still humming in my bones.
“Sorry I’m late,” I say.
Thane turns, brown eyes sweeping over me—analyzing.
“The bike?”
I nod once. “Yeah.”
He gestures to the chair across from him. “Sit.”
And for the first time all day I try to relax, taking in the low light, the leather chairs, the pianist in the corner.
My best friend—and usual voice of reason—orders without looking at a menu. I don’t ask what. Not even when the bartender sets down two crystal tumblers of something dark and expensive.
Thane lifts his glass. “To the success of the IPO.”
I clink mine against his. “To Titan.”
We drink, and silence stretches over us, weighted.
“You’re losing focus,” Thane says finally. “And not just professionally.”
I stare into my glass. “I know.”
“Logan’s worried.”
“That makes one of us.” I counter.
“And Julia asked about you.”
The mention of Thane’s wife gets my attention. “She did?”
“She always liked you. But said you remind her of someone who never learned how to rest.”
I smirk faintly. “Sounds like criticism.”
“It is.” Another sip. Then Thane leans back, expression steady. “Talk to me.”
I laugh under my breath. “About which disaster?”
“All of them. But let’s start with Emma.”
My jaw tightens automatically.
Judging by the look on Thane’s stern face, he knows about the pregnancy. Of course he does. Logan has never been able to keep a secret a day in his damn life.
“So, you’re going to be a father?” he asks gently.
“Yes.”
“You in love with her?”
I swallow, but I couldn’t lie if I wanted to. “Yes.”
“You're letting her push you away because you’re terrified you’ll fail her?”
I don’t answer, and he nods once. “Thought so.”
He takes another drink. “You know why Julia and I work?”
I reach for my glass. “Because you’re both stubborn as hell.”
“That helps. But mostly because when things get hard, we talk it out. Even when we don’t want to.” He meets my gaze, unwavering. “You don’t need to be perfect, Don. You need to be present.”
The words hit like a hammer, and suddenly, for the first time in weeks, something inside me shifts.
I set my glass down carefully.
“I almost died tonight,” I say.
Thane stiffens. “What?”
“On my bike. West Side Highway.” My voice is quiet, tonight’s near-calamity pricking at the edges of my brain. “For one second, I didn’t see the brake lights. And all I could think was…my kid doesn’t even have a name yet.”
Thane’s expression hardens. "Have you asked her? Have you actually had a conversation about what happened with Vanessa? Her cheating with that Andrew guy—her tennis instructor? Having a baby with him?”
It’s a blow that settles low—only… it doesn’t hit the way it used to. Not even close.
Thane leans forward. “Or are you just assuming the worst because it's easier than risking rejection?"
I stare into my glass. “Emma doesn't want me."
"This is about your father.”
I look up sharply. "What?"
"Your fear of being a dad. Of failing. Of abandoning your child the way your father abandoned you." He shakes his head. "Don, you're not your father. You know that, right?"
"Do I? Vanessa sure as shit seemed to think that I was.”
"Vanessa was full of shit," Thane says bluntly. "She cheated on you and then blamed you for working too much. That's not your failure. That's hers."
"But she wasn't wrong. I do prioritize work over everything else. I always have."
"Because work is safe," Thane says. "Work is predictable. You can control it. But love? Relationships? Fatherhood? Those are messy and unpredictable and terrifying. So you convince yourself you're not capable of them."
"What if I'm not?" I ask quietly. "What if I try and still fail? What if Emma's right and I can't be what she and the baby need?"
"Then you fail," Thane says simply. "And you try again. That's what parenting is. That's what relationships are. You fail and you adjust and you keep showing up." He snorts. “Hell, you think Julia and I haven’t failed a thousand times already?”
“You and Julia are so damn perfect it’s sickening,” I hiss, taking another swig.
“Sure we are. If you think arguing about parenting methods and work schedules and whose turn it is to do bath time is ‘perfect.’ Spoiler alert: It fucking isn’t.
” Thane swirls his own drink with a smirk.
“We get it wrong all the time. Last month, I almost forgot our anniversary because I was buried in that Singapore deal. She was furious. Rightfully so. Thought I was going to end up on a poster for missing people.”
"What did you do?"
"I apologized, made it up to her. And more importantly…
I plan on doing better the next time." Thane meets my eyes.
"That's the point, Don. You're going to fuck up.
You're going to fail at being the perfect partner and the perfect father.
But that doesn't mean you stop trying." His head tilts. “You afraid?”
I snort, pulse beating an irregular rhythm. “Scared shitless.”
“Good. Fear means you care. Fear means you understand the stakes." Thane finishes his drink. “And the stakes are never higher than they are now. Now, the question is: Are you man enough to face them?”
I blink, my gaze going back to the amber liquid in my hand.
I'm Donovan Mitchell Titan. I faced building a billion-dollar company from nothing. I've faced negotiations with people who wanted to destroy me. I've faced—and survived—every hard thing life has thrown at me.
Tonight, I’ve even faced a near-death experience.
I can fucking face this. Face fatherhood and fight.
Fight for the woman I love and the child we created.
The two people I want more than anything.
Even if it's terrifying.
Because the alternative—living without them—is worse than any fear.
I stand, and Thane watches me, eyes narrowing. “Whoa, where are you going?”
“To stop running,” I say.
A pause. Then he smiles. “About damn time.”